Gothic Blue

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?’ said Jonathan, entering into the spirit of the thing as he held both her breasts and flicked at her hardened nipples with his thumbs. ‘You’re thinking about rude things, I can tell. That’s what makes this happen –’ He pinched each teat, pulling them out slightly, creating a small but delicious jolt of pain.

  Her eyes closing, Belinda gasped, sensing the presence of a new facet to Jonathan’s sexual persona. Was André at work on him too? she thought, wriggling her bottom against the mattress. She could feel her vulva responding to the tugging sensation on her nipples; she was flowing wantonly, wetting her nightgown where it was bunched up beneath her.

  ‘And I’ll bet you’re not wearing any panties either, you little slut.’ Jonathan continued his pinching, giving a little jerk which made Belinda’s eyes snap open. In the eyes of her partner, she saw no malice or cruelty, but just a teasing streak of humour. He was only paying her back for her own actions earlier, but his masquerade severity was a goad to her senses. She thought back to being with André last night on the terrace, and how, for a moment, she had wanted him to hit her, to spank her bare bottom and infuse her with shame. Was this a new twist to her own sexual persona? she wondered, unable to keep still as her thighs scissored and her sex pulsed. Was she a secret masochist? Would she get off on pain? Real pain; not just her breasts being nipped?

  ‘Come on, I think we’d better have a look, hadn’t we?’ Abandoning her breasts, Jonathan placed his palm on her midriff and tipped her back on to the bed. With one hand, and a dexterity she had not realised he possessed, he snagged both of her wrists and held them tightly, while with the other hand he swiftly raised her skirt.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ he crowed, when the soft white cotton was bunched at her waist and her belly, and thighs and pubis were exposed. ‘You’re a wicked little thing, Belinda Seward, going to bed without your panties … I bet that was so you could diddle yourself in the night, wasn’t it?’

  Belinda nodded, sinking happily into the fantasy of being a ‘naughty little girl’. ‘Yes, that is why I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘I should think so,’ replied Jonathan, clearly relishing the shadowplay too, ‘and you know how I feel about that, don’t you? I’m going to have to inspect you now. To see how far this wickedness has gone.’ He hesitated, and Belinda guessed he was either working out where to go next or trying to suppress his laughter. ‘Assume the position, please.’

  Belinda had no idea what the position was, but she improvised, her body shaking as she shifted on the bed. Hitching her bottom to the edge of the mattress, she slid her hands beneath her thighs, then hauled them up, at the same parting her legs. With her knees squashed against her breasts, she was in the most revealing position she could imagine for ‘inspection’ purposes, and Jonathan’s low, delighted growl confirmed her instincts. Giddy with arousal, she lifted herself higher.

  ‘So eager to show off, aren’t we?’ commented Jonathan, his voice revealingly husky as he leant over to get a better view. ‘That’s it, open right up. Let’s see everything.’

  Belinda pulled harder on her thighs, straining every muscle to expose herself completely and lifting her bottom up from the bed so he could see the dark crinkled portal of her anus. For an instant she imagined André seeing the same view, but from a different perspective, and the image made her weeping sex contract.

  ‘This is an inspection,’ said Jonathan gruffly, his breathing uneven. ‘You’re not supposed to be enjoying it. Come on – open wider!’

  Belinda did her best, but she was beginning to climb now, to ascend towards pleasure, and her mind filled with rude, inflaming images.

  Behind her closed eyes, she pictured the whole household assembled in the room, all watching the proceedings with great interest; all observing her vulgar struggles to display her sex.

  She seemed to see André, sitting in one of the beautiful gilded chairs, his eyes languorous, his cool penis clasped loosely in his fingers. Before him knelt Elisa and Feltris, their golden bodies naked, their bare nipples hard and dark and rosy, while in the foreground, imposing Oren advanced towards her. He too was nude, and his huge erection pointed straight towards her vulva. She seemed to feel it touch her, and the imagined impact made her squeal.

  In reality, the contact was with Jonathan’s fingers, two of them, which curved slightly as they entered her vagina.

  ‘Hmmm … Just as I thought,’ he muttered, waggling the intruding digits inside her. ‘Extremely wet.’ He pressed determinedly, finding her G-spot and making her cry out again as she felt the phantom urge to urinate. Her inner muscles grabbed greedily at her assailant.

  ‘I think this calls for the special treatment,’ Jonathan observed thoughtfully, his fingers still exerting the teasing pressure. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes! Oh yes!’ Belinda croaked, not knowing what he meant but wanting it anyway.

  Jonathan quickly slid his fingers from her body, and with a speed and assurance that she blessed high heaven for, he took her by one thigh and lowered the tilt of her body with one hand, while the other rummaged urgently in his clothing. Within seconds, the head of his penis was nudging at her entrance, and a heartbeat later he was pushing it inside her.

  ‘Oh God, yes!’ Belinda’s cry was strangled but joyous. How many hours now had she been longing for penetration? It seemed like a lifetime … no, much longer … an eternity.

  As Jonathan began to thrust, she matched his rhythm with her thankful sobs.

  Chapter Ten

  Inertia

  BELINDA FELT AS if she were pinned to the mattress by inertia. She couldn’t get up because her limbs were too relaxed and too glowing to function. It was ten o’clock, but she simply couldn’t stir.

  Beside her Jonathan was equally still, although his even breathing told her he was sound asleep.

  ‘You deserve the rest, sweetheart,’ whispered Belinda, rousing herself just enough to sit up and look down on his peaceful, boyish face. It wasn’t all that long ago since he had made love to her like a veritable demon, deploying a strength and authority that she had never previously seen in him – a dominant aura that seemed to suit him very nicely.

  After he had given her ‘a good seeing to’ – while she was folded awkwardly on the edge of the bed – he had pulled out, still erect, and bade her move. Then, once she was lying in a more comfortable, less contrived position, he had pushed into her hungry body for a second time, his thrusts longer, less staccato, and more gentle. This considerate lover had been the Jonathan she was used to; the one who fucked her as an equal and made no attempt whatsoever to bend her will.

  ‘And I like both of you,’ she said, smiling fondly down at him. ‘Mr Discipline and my dear old Johnny.’ She touched his face but he just mumbled and hugged his pillow.

  The temptation to do the same; to lie down, snuggle up to Jonathan’s bare warm back, and go to sleep again, was enormous. She felt as if she were floating in a delicious pool of lethargy, her limbs bathed in a glowing sexual silkiness. She knew that if she did lie down again, she would be sleeping within seconds; but at the back of her mind there were questions that needed answering. As she accepted that, she woke up once and for all.

  The biggest question was, ‘What the devil are we still doing here?’ It was well over twenty-four hours since she and Jonathan had abandoned the Mini in the rain, and yet neither of them had made the slightest effort to go back and see if it would start, or to check on their belongings. This sort of behaviour was fairly typical of Jonathan – he was rather happy-go-lucky over things like possessions and time-keeping – but she was a compulsive organiser and it was not like her at all. Under normal circumstances, she would have had them back on their way by now, if the car was functional, or at least made some arrangements to get it fixed.

  But somehow, most of her business-like qualities seemed to have been washed away by the storm, and all she wanted to do was drift around this peculiar, brooding hou
se, and have sex in a variety of novel forms. And she had a strong suspicion as to how this had come about.

  ‘What are you doing to me, André?’

  As she spoke the words, she made a concentrated mental effort to project their meaning outward. It seemed a rather esoteric thing to do, but she was almost certain that their strange host could sense her thoughts.

  Just what powers did he possess, this handsome young 200-year-old nobleman? His claims of abnormal longevity should have seemed a complete cock-and-bull story, but somehow, right at the heart of her, she believed him. He was still withholding part of his story from her, she sensed, but she was certain what he had told her was true.

  André? she probed again, then shook her head, laughing softly to herself. What was she expecting? An instant telepathic answer or a knock at the door in response to her summons? Or even that he materialise in the centre of the room from a cloud of blue mist? She smiled again, deciding she had read far too many spooky stories.

  The count’s extrasensory radio clearly wasn’t switched on this morning, however, because nothing happened. Did he sleep during the day? she wondered. She had accused him of being a vampire, and though he had denied it, he had admitted to sharing some of their characteristics. Resting during the hours of daylight could well be one of those. He had been asleep yesterday, when she had first seen him in the tower room, and by the time she met the conscious André, it had already been the early hours of evening.

  Rising cautiously from the bed, she held her hand to her head. All this deliberation over matters ‘fantastic’ was giving her a headache. She decided to wash her face and get a drink of water.

  Proceeding languidly across the room, she bent down to pick up the Victorian nightdress which Jonathan had flung triumphantly on the floor during the course of their love-making – another symptom of his brand new sexual dynamism.

  Fifteen minutes later, a slightly refreshed Belinda discovered that there was no other female clothing to be had in the room. All the things she had worn last night had disappeared, as had the shift she had been supplied with yesterday. Of her own shorts and T-shirt there was no sign at all. Neither was there any underwear of any kind.

  I’m trapped, thought Belinda, recalling her presentiments that André had some secret purpose in mind for her. He’s stolen all my clothes so I can’t escape from him. ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ she muttered grimly, unfolding the nightdress again and pulling it on over her head. Giving Jonathan a kiss – to which the only response was a drowsy snuffle into the pillow – she set out to find some life in the silent vastness of the priory.

  The upper corridor was completely deserted, as she had expected, and she debated making her way through the gallery towards the high tower where André ‘slept’. One part of her wanted to confront him immediately and voice her suspicions, while another part told her to be wary. She had to be sure of her facts first – and find out more about him, if she could. A deeper study of his house and his possessions might help, and the library in particular had been crammed with books and documents. There was bound to be something there that could enlighten her.

  Descending the stairs barefoot, Belinda felt conspicuous despite the absence of any company. The house was very still, yet there was a teasing breeze coming from somewhere. It seemed to creep beneath the hem of her nightdress and remind her that her bottom and sex were bare, and as she moved, it did too, making balmy air flow across her naked skin.

  On the landing, a particularly striking portrait of André in some kind of antique military uniform seemed to smirk down at her, as if its blue eyes could see straight through the thin lawn that covered her. Pausing to frown up at him, Belinda ground her teeth in mortification. The damn thing was ogling her! And the body it perused was responding. She felt her nipples stiffen, coming to their hard, erect state so fast it was almost painful, while between her legs, her female groove began to moisten.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ she cried to the smiling portrait. ‘I can’t take this! It’s not natural to be aroused all the time!’

  Shocked by her outburst, she looked around, fearing that someone might have heard her, which was ridiculous because Jonathan was fast asleep, André was probably the same, and there was no sign whatsoever of the three blond mutes. All this weirdness is getting to me, she thought, smoothing the inadequate cotton of her nightdress against her. I’m talking to the bloody pictures now!

  Fired with new determination, she hurried down the rest of the stairs, trying to ignore her sudden feeling of sharp arousal. She could even smell herself now; she caught a strong, disturbing hint of her own sexual musk as the thin nightgown billowed and flapped around her.

  ‘Stop it!’ she snapped, not sure whether it was the absent André she was castigating or herself. ‘It takes two to tango,’ she muttered, pausing in the lofty hall, the stone floor pleasantly cool beneath her feet. She had to be just as interested in André von Kastel as he was in her, or she wouldn’t have responded to him. She had let him make love to her. Let him coax liberties out of her that her boyfriend never had. It was quite outrageous when she really stopped to think about it.

  The terrace … As if falling through time, she imagined herself suddenly back there, lying prone across the parapet while André assaulted her with his fingers and his mouth. The way her senses recreated the incident was uncanny, and stunned to a halt in the middle of the hall, she seemed to feel again the wet intrusion of André’s tongue: first into her vagina and then into her anus. As she relived it, her swollen clitoris began to ache.

  ‘No! Oh no!’ she cried, the sound almost pitiful. Her sex felt so heavy with blood that it was difficult to stand straight. Her thighs were parted of their own accord, in an attempt to ease the sudden pressure, and clenching her fists, she resisted the urge to do what her sex was silently screaming for – to reach down, where she stood, and wildly masturbate.

  Around her all the portraits seemed to whisper. A dozen Andrés murmured, ‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’

  ‘No! Oh please, no!’ keened Belinda, while her body betrayed her and she shifted her feet further apart, widening her stance. She tossed her head, her eyes closed, refusing to see the portraits but pinned to the spot by their seditious blue gazes. Her hips tilted and her vulva twitched and rippled. Liquid began to ooze between her labia, escape her pubic hair and crawl in a single stream down her inner thigh.

  ‘Go on,’ the heard but unheard voices urged her. ‘Amuse me … Surrender to your lust and caress your dripping jewel …’

  The line between engorgement and real pain beginning to blur, Belinda took a step forward, biting her lips at the resulting jolt of pleasure. Her nipples were so tensed they were tugging on the sensitive tissues of her breast and creating friction against the thin stuff of her nightdress. It was woven cotton lawn of the finest, lightest texture, but she might as well have been wearing a hair shirt.

  Beyond words now, she whimpered, wrapping her arm about her chest and squeezing tightly to assuage the subtle torment. She was just about to clutch her vulva when a creaking door froze her actions. Spinning around, almost coming, she expected to see André walking purposefully towards her, his brilliant eyes glinting sapphire in his triumph.

  ‘Who’s there?’ called Belinda, her fingers creeping, of their own volition, towards her sex. She almost didn’t care any longer if there was anyone there; they could watch her as far as she was concerned; she was too deep in her own desire to hold back now.

  A door on her left swung a little way, but no one came through it. The shadows offered up no hidden voyeur. There was no one. She was alone, as she had been all along, but the interruption, she realised, had thwarted her. Suspicion had drawn her just far enough back from the brink of orgasm to return control of her actions to her brain, her thinking mind.

  She still felt aroused and she still yearned for relief, but she was no longer a mindless animal led by lust. She wanted to masturbate, but she couldn’t stand here and do it.

  ‘I
hate you, you bastard!’ she cried out, her every instinct pointing accusingly at André. Even when he wasn’t with her, he was with her, taunting her. He had control of her while he probably wasn’t even conscious.

  Belinda could feel fury welling. There was nothing she hated more than to be a man’s puppet. At least, not when she didn’t want to be. The games she had enjoyed last night had been consensual, inspired by delicious wine and the magic, brooding darkness. Even the little ‘performance’ this morning with Jonathan had been tempered by a sense of fun and their mutual familiarity.

  But right now she was being used – relentlessly manipulated – and all to serve a man’s unnatural needs.

  She was just about to storm back up the stairs, along the convoluted corridors and galleries and then round and round the circular staircase to André’s eyrie, when an irresistible aroma tickled her nostrils.

  Coffee. Sublime, strong, revivifying coffee. Healer of psychic ills and restorer of lost tempers. Belinda immediately began to salivate and to long for a steaming cupful. A mugful. Several mugfuls. Suppressing her inner complaints against André – but not forgetting them – she turned in the direction of the fabulous smell. It was Blue Mountain, her favourite; she would put good money on it.

  Her nose led her to the terrace, and she hesitated in the doorway from the house, recalling fragments of last night’s alfresco debauch.

  There was no sign of the peach-coloured dress or her abandoned underwear, and in the hazy sunlight, the long, stone-flagged expanse didn’t look in the least bit gloomy and ominous. The terrace was like the rest of the priory: its character seemed infinitely mutable. On a pleasant, normal, holiday morning like this it was difficult to remember what this house had looked like in a thunderstorm.